


all that we see or seem

by sable_tyger (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Use, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sable_tyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson are in love, and they both know it. But the thing is—with Holmes working so closely with Scotland Yard, not to mention murderers and blackmailers, he and Watson have agreed that they aren’t willing to put each other at risk.</p><p>In their own time, they both come to regret their decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that we see or seem

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [shkinkmeme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com) prompt [here](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=20996586). The title is a quote from “A Dream Within a Dream” by Edgar Allan Poe.
> 
> There are allusions to domestic violence within this story, but it isn't graphic.
> 
> At the time this story takes place, male homosexuality was still a criminal offense in England under the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885 (and would remain so until the Sexual Offences Act 1967).

The first time it happens, Holmes blames the copious amounts of alcohol they’d both imbibed. He’s aware of how cliché this is, and also how untrue.

Neither he nor Watson mentions what happened the next morning. But Holmes does not forget Watson’s hands, fumbling at Holmes’ waist and shoulders and threading through his hair, nor Watson’s mouth, hot and open and murmuring broken syllables in the hollow of his throat.

The second time—they had just finished a case. A difficult one, and long, three months on end of frustration and leads that went nowhere and other things, worse things: bloody footprints in the snow, winding in labyrinthine, endless circles; a message scrawled into the dust of a broken window, _help me._ Holmes is angrier the second time, rougher, more desperate. He talks instead, endlessly, stuttering words against the corners of Watson’s mouth that sound like _fuck me_ and _harder, there_ but are really more like whispered condemnations— _harder, I deserve it_. Considering the extenuating circumstances, Holmes doesn’t blame himself for the second time either.

The third time, however, is entirely his fault.

Watson is sitting as his desk, a pen in his hand as he hunches over the sheaf of loose leaf paper before him. There’s a splatter of ink at the line of his jaw, unnoticed. Holmes watches him from the doorway for a long moment without speaking. His throat feels unnaturally tight, strained, as if his voice would splinter if he spoke.

Finally sensing his presence, Watson looks up, disconcerted; “Holmes?”

He crosses the distance between them, still silent, until he is standing beside Watson’s desk and looking down at him. He kneels and smoothes away the ink on Watson’s jaw with the tips of his fingers, carefully; beneath his touch, Watson is warm, unresisting.

It’s Watson who turns in towards the kiss, who shifts his weight and leans forward so that his lips brush Holmes’, but Holmes is the one who pulls him in, his hands on either side of Watson’s face as he draws him up and holds him there, desperately, like he’d drown without him.

It’s a tricky thing, finding the bedroom—one of their bedrooms, either one, doesn’t matter really—because neither lets go of the other long enough to properly get his bearings. Watson’s tongue is at the line of Holmes’ mouth, the back of his teeth, and his hands are firm at Holmes’ sides, already divesting him of his clothes. Holmes’ knees hit the bed and he falls, off balance. Watson is smiling, predatory, as he unbuttons his shirt, trousers; they pool discarded on the floor.

Holmes just wants to look at him, to memorize the angles of his body, every line of scarred skin, smooth, but Watson is moving towards him and Holmes’ heart threatens to burst in his chest. He knows—he’s known all along—what must happen next, and how much he should not have done this.

Watson cages him with his body and Holmes surges against him, involuntarily, exposing the length of his throat. Watson takes advantage, and even as Holmes threads his fingers in Watson’s hair, he tries to push him away, to correct the mistake he has already made.

“Watson—” A hitch in his breath as Watson takes Holmes in his hand and twists, gently; “Watson, wait." 

Watson tenses, and his eyes meet Holmes’. What he sees is enough to make him lean forward and kiss him before biting down on Holmes’ lower lip, hard, drawing blood—“Don’t say it,” he whispers against Holmes’ lips; “ _don’t_ , please, Holmes, please.”

And he thumbs the slit of Holmes’ cock, the pad of his thumb rough, ungentle, and Holmes groans something wordless into Watson’s mouth, bucks his hips against him. Watson steals the air from his lungs so that they’re both left gasping.

But afterwards, when Watson presses against him, slicked with sweat and come and his tongue tracing the lines of Holmes’ ribcage, Holmes speaks, his voice unsteady—“We can’t do this anymore, Watson.” He’s known it since the start, hasn’t wanted to admit it, but he has to, he must. It hurts to speak.

Watson stills, looks up. His blue eyes meet Holmes’ and he exhales like he’ll never take a breath again.

He says: “I know.”

There is no fourth time.

\---

It’s just—they are always under scrutiny. For all that Holmes attempts to remain out of the public eye, some things always slip through the cracks. When a newspaper finally manages to print his picture, he stares at it for a long time, unable to believe it, wondering how much trouble this will be on a future case when he needs anonymity. And Watson’s patients always linger a little too long, peer around corners with just a bit too much interest. They would give anything to know more about the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and the man who puts his exploits to paper. Watson’s stories are mostly fabrication—the names changed, major details exaggerated or expunged, and yet sometimes Holmes reads them over, he doesn’t know why, and some terribly telling moments shine through the veiled words.

One slip, and everything they have—Holmes’ carefully constructed career, Watson’s medical practice, their hard-earned privacy—will go crumbling out from beneath them. It’s not the legal consequences that Holmes fears, though they are a real risk; it’s the potential loss of everything he’s built for himself, of the career he loves so well, of the life he cannot live without. _(Give me problems, give me work.)_  

And so, he thinks: it’s that or Watson. And he won’t _lose_ Watson this way—not really. Not as badly as he would if they were to pursue this and be discovered. Better to let some things go unexplored rather than to have them, to possess them, only to watch them fall apart.

This is what he tells himself. He almost says as much to Watson, too— _if we were discovered_ and _the shame it would bring on your practice_ and _no, we can’t, it’s impossible—_ but in the end he cannot bring himself to say any of those things. Instead he thinks of Watson, his lips parted and his eyes dark, uplifted, looking at Holmes as if he is the only thing in the world, all that exists. Whatever—whatever _this_ is, Holmes can’t put words to it, he can’t explain it—Watson knows why it can’t continue. Holmes doesn’t have to tell him, and they don’t discuss it.

So that’s that, then. They move on.

\---

Lestrade is reciting everything he knows about the new case, unhelpfully; Holmes already knows it all and then some. A young woman in her early twenties _(twenty-one? No, twenty-two)_ called Lillian Eaves, small for her age and from a significantly wealthy family, was supposedly taken from her bed in the middle of the night three days ago. Holmes cannot find a single disturbance or sign of struggle in her bedroom, to the agitation of the woman’s mother. Her father smokes a cigar and looks out the window, silent, voiceless; Lestrade claims it’s due to grief, Holmes knows better. He can tell already what has happened from the stance of the father, the panic of the mother, the severe austerity of the bedroom. He checks the drawers of the dresser after everyone else leaves the room. They are not empty of clothes, but not filled, either, as a wealthy young socialite’s dresser should be.

Watson notices what Holmes is doing, and thankfully he does not draw attention to it. He knows how Holmes operates, knows that Holmes surrenders his thoughts only when necessary—or safe. Watson charms the parents of the missing woman instead, diverting them from Holmes’ investigation.

“Here, Mrs. Eaves,” he says, pulling out a chair. “Have a seat while my partner and Inspector Lestrade continue working—you look terribly pale.” He checks her pulse and shushes her when she tried to resist. “I am a doctor, after all,” he says with that charming smile of his, disarmingly so, the corners of his mouth tucked away like a secret. Holmes looks away before his throat has time to close up at the sight of it.

“We’re fine, doctor,” the father says, gruffly—a little too sharply, too aggressively.

Holmes closes the door of Lillian Eaves’ bedroom and hopes, briefly, that wherever she has run to, she is safe now. Safer than here with her father, whose familial devotion can be seen in the yellowing bruise on his wife’s wrist, revealed when Watson tried to take her pulse.

“I will do everything I can to find your daughter,” Holmes half-lies. He will find Lillian, but not for Mr. Eaves; if possible, he will relay the information to Lillian’s mother, so the two might remain in contact—so the daughter might help the mother escape as well.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Eaves says. There are tears in her eyes. Her husband puts his hand on her shoulder, his knuckles hard-edged.

Out in the street, away from that oppressive house, Holmes leans back against the fence and closes his eyes, breathing deep of the cold air tinged with the threat of snow.

“What do you make of it, Holmes?” Lestrade he lights a cigarette, his hands steady. “Where should we start?”

Holmes ignores him, debating how much he should tell and how much he should keep to himself.

And then suddenly his whole left side is warmer, shielded from the winter wind; Watson leans into him, too close, and ducks his head to put his mouth to Holmes’ ear. Holmes’ entire body tenses, like a bow drawn over the string of a violin.

“What did you see?” Watson asks quietly, so Lestrade does not hear.

A part of Holmes—a desperate, pleading part—wants to turn his face to Watson’s, uplifted, and close the space between them.

Holmes slips smoothly away instead without looking at Watson, who goes rigid with the realization of his error (or perhaps not; Holmes cannot tell without seeing his face), and says to Lestrade, “Nowhere, yet. I am taking this case off your hands. I’ll solve it without the Yard.”

Lestrade goes red with fury, sputters something about the authority of the police—“You can’t do this, you are _violating the law_ , Holmes!”—and Holmes thinks, _no, but I want to be._ He turns away without another word, his heels making sharp sounds against the cobbled stones.

It gratifies him, that Watson follows—and pains him, more than that.

\---

If he were honest with himself, Holmes would acknowledge the additional reasons he has for doing this—for not doing it, rather. He isn’t honest with himself.

Watson makes him feel exposed, vulnerable in ways he has no experience with. Incredible intelligence and a quick tongue have always managed to prevent people from seeing more of Holmes than he wishes; he keeps others a bay with a few well-chosen words, diversions disguised as humor, half-truths parodying as lies.

He’s unable to do so with Watson, who has seen Holmes at his best and at his worst: his best when he’s on a case, focused, his mind like a razor blade; his worst when he’s not, empty syringes on the carpeted floor, broken skin over his knuckles when Watson inspects them and asks, _why, Holmes, please, just give me a straight answer for once._

 _Oh, if only you knew_ , Holmes says, and sighs.

A sound of irritation _(hurt?)_ deep in Watson’s throat, and he withdraws. He thinks Holmes is mocking him. Holmes is mocking himself.

And Watson—he does not experience the same highs and lows that Holmes does. Which is not to imply that he does not feel as strongly or as sincerely; Holmes has no doubt of that. But Watson’s best is a smile hidden in the tucked corners of his mouth, a laugh behind his teeth, a touch at Holmes’ side to remind him _I am here, always._ His worst is silence, laced deep with unhappiness, dissatisfaction, but controlled and composed so completely that Holmes is envious. Watson doesn’t wake up with needle marks in the cradle of his arms that he cannot remember getting; he doesn’t go down to the docks and beat someone senseless when his nerves fray and his skin crawls over his bones.

You see the disparity there, then, between the two of them.

And it isn’t that they are too unlike, because they are alike in all the ways that matter. It’s that sometimes Holmes will look at Watson and think: _I don’t know why I put you through this, or why you endure it._

And so—maybe it’s selfish. But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like sacrifice. It feels like telling Watson _go, now, free yourself and find something better. Something you deserve._

Not to mention that Holmes can hardly keep track of the amount of times someone has tried to use Watson to get to him—by blackmailing him, veiled threats, _we’ll get him if you keep looking, stop now_ ; by throwing bricks through the window of Watson’s medical practice, and Holmes is thankful they aren’t bullets. Watson has always shrugged it off. If he keeps his army pistol on him at all times, he doesn’t say, but Holmes knows. If anyone were to suspect that Holmes is closer to Watson than publically believed—than what is publically _acceptable_ —Holmes does not want to consider the consequences.

But he does, of course, his mind quickly and effortlessly assessing the inherent danger Watson would face in such a situation. He has never been able to stop his mind from working even when he wants to. The conclusion is exactly what he feared: the danger posed would reach unacceptable levels, threats would become reality, bricks would transubstantiate into bullets. And Watson is not something that Holmes is willing to risk.

\---

They manage like this for a long time, or for what feels like it. Months pass—the torpid, lazy summer gives way to the crispness of autumn, then dissipates under early winter’s chill once more. New cases arise and are finished. Holmes finds Lillian Eaves and puts her in contact with her mother. Mr. Eaves files another disappearance report with Scotland Yard when his wife goes missing three months later, and Holmes respectfully turns down the case.

“One of the benefits of being a consulting detective,” he tells Mr. Eaves, who is livid with fury, “is that I get to choose the cases I take. Good day, Mr. Eaves.”

And Mr. Eaves—a violent but predictable man—does exactly as Holmes expects him to. He lashes out, not at Holmes but at Watson, who is leaning heavily on his cane, the cold rain outside making his old war wounds ache dully—Holmes remembers watching him stumble on the stairs that morning. It had taken great effort not to reach out and steady Watson then, to be that hand for him to lean on. While Holmes has always wanted and needed that steadiness in his life, he knows that Watson prefers to be the one doing the steadying.

And besides. The passersby had been watching, too closely; Sherlock Holmes is on a new case, and suddenly sharp eyes fix upon him: there’s a new homeless man down the street (a poor disguise) and a newly interested neighbor (most likely bribed) whose eyes Holmes can feel on him at all times.

In any case, Mr. Eaves is a man who preys on perceived weakness, and Watson—with his cane and limp, worsened by the weather—seems to be the perfect target. Mr. Eaves snarls something and lashes out, Watson reels backwards from the blow, his army instincts still as good as ever, and Holmes reaches forward, almost unconcernedly though inside he is burning up with fury, and catches hold of Mr. Eaves’ fist, twists sharply. The fragile bones in the man’s hand snap, and he recoils, cradling his mangled hand to his chest and watching Holmes with sharp, angry eyes, narrowed.

“Do not try to contact me,” Holmes says, coldly. “And if you ever attempt to injure somebody I care about again, you will find yourself in the unfortunate position of being my enemy.”

He turns on his heel, the leather soles of his shoes rough against the floor. Watson follows him down the street. He is red-faced, perhaps embarrassed that Holmes had defended him; Watson is a military man, after all, and proud.

So it’s a shock when Watson says instead, his eyes heavy-lidded as if he bears the weight of some untellable exhaustion: “Thank you, Holmes.”

His voice is unsteady, constricted; Holmes doubts the emotion is fear, because it is unlikely that Mr. Eaves had done anything to intimidate Watson, merely taken him by surprise. No, it’s something else—something harder to pin down, to encapsulate in words, and Holmes finds in that moment that it is difficult to look Watson in the eye.

“Of course,” he says quietly, and thinks, _anything for you_.

\---

January is cold and icy, miserable. The snow lines the street and turns to slush, dirty and unappealing, nothing at all like the snowy, romantic vistas of wintery paintings. Holmes barricades himself in 221B Baker Street and stokes the fire as Watson braves the elements to visit his patients who’ve taken a turn for the worse in the inhospitable weather. He returns late, the sun already setting, and stomps the snow off his boots in the doorway, his numb fingers fumbling at his scarf.

“Here, John, let me get that for you,” Mrs. Hudson says, and she reaches out to take Watson’s coat.

“I can manage quite fine on my own, thank you,” Watson snaps, the color high in his cheeks and his voice sharp, whiplashed. Mrs. Hudson frowns, her lips thinning; Holmes watches from the corner of his eye, and it seems that she is saying _damn it, I already have Holmes to deal with, don’t do this to me, too._

And Watson—he wilts beneath her gaze, like a flower curling in on itself in the heat. “I’m sorry,” he says, shakily hanging up his coat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth is still tense, white-lined, but her demeanor is soft as she takes Watson’s gloves from him. “Never mind, then. You go on in. I’ll bring something to warm you up.”

Watson apologizes again anyway, and Mrs. Hudson brushes it off, her gaze sympathetic in ways Holmes does not like to contemplate. He snaps the corner of his newspaper up to hide the doorway from his line of sight. Watson settles into the armchair opposite Holmes, stretching his hands out towards the fire, saying nothing. Mrs. Hudson returns after a few minutes with a strong cup of tea, and the steam rises in thin tendrils around Watson’s face as he takes a sip, gratefully, and accepts the dry socks and slippers that Mrs. Hudson has also brought. After that, he broods at the fire, his hands curled around his teacup, his fingertips settled in the hollows between his knuckles. Holmes is content to let him be. One of his patients must have been doing more poorly than expected to have upset him like this, and Holmes doesn’t want to pry.

“I hate this,” Watson says softly, suddenly, as if to no one. The silence tenses after his words, like muscles contracted over yellow bone.

Holmes doesn’t look up from the paper. “The weather _is_ abhorrent,” he says lightly; “I’ve never been able to stand January.”

“I don’t mean the goddamn weather,” Watson says, and his voice is clipped like the feathers of a tamed and grounded falcon. He flings the contents of his teacup into the fireplace with one fluid motion, the tea hissing as it hits the flames, and he rises to his feet, all coiled, tensed energy—“I’m going to bed.”

By the time Holmes looks up, Watson has already closed the door to his quarters, firmly, and the tea is sputtering in the fire. Holmes realizes he’s missed something important, but for once in his life he doesn’t know what. Or perhaps he simply does not want to.

\---

That night, Watson dreams.

Or rather—he has a nightmare. He has them, from time to time; Holmes had first realized it a few years after they’d moved in together. He’d been furious with Watson for not telling him and furious with himself for not figuring it out sooner. Watson never explains what the dreams entail, but it’s easy enough to guess. You don’t go to war and come away from it without bearing a few scars, most internal. It’s been over a year since the last time Watson has dreamed, though—or at least, a year since the last time Holmes _knows_ Watson’s dreamed.

Holmes awakes to silence, sharp and sudden, and understands instantly what’s happening. He can’t hear anything, but the silence swells in the way it does after some disturbance, now faded. Holmes rises from his bed and pads to the doorway on quiet feet, slipping around the doorframe and through the living room towards Watson’s bedroom. He avoids the floor planks beside the fire that creak and gently nudges Watson’s door open.

Watson’s breath is quickened, irregular. In the dark Holmes can hardly discern him, but he feels the tension in the air, so familiar and strange at the same time, like an old memory of pain, now experienced anew— _yes, that’s it, that’s how it felt._

He is frozen for a moment, does not know what to do. And then he moves, crosses the room on light, airy feet before dipping over the bed, splaying his hands over Watson’s shoulders and gently, unobtrusively bringing him to consciousness.

Watson starts awake, his eyes wide and unseeing for a few terrible moments that feel endless. Panic rises, Holmes can see it in his eyes, and as if by instinct he slips under the blankets beside Watson, puts his arms around him and holds him close. Watson’s pulse flutters beneath Holmes’ touch and Holmes can feel the thrumming of his blood, adrenaline-spiked. Before he is aware of what he is doing, he brushes his mouth against Watson’s throat, murmuring words to calm him. Watson tenses and his hand scrabbles at Holmes’ back for a moment, his nails blunt and painful—before he relaxes, slowly, every muscle loosening one-by-one in Holmes’ grip. His breath evens out, plateaus, and he exhales through his teeth. If he wants to speak, he does not do so.

Holmes turns his face to Watson’s neck and keeps his arms around him, their breathing falling into the same rhythm, and when Watson falls asleep, Holmes does not leave even though he knows he should. He stays in the warmth of Watson’s presence and watches him the whole night through so as to ward off the next nightmare before it descends.

He rises early the next morning, before Watson wakes. When Watson stumbles out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and unsteady on his feet, his shirt untucked and buttoned incorrectly, Holmes is already reading that morning’s paper. He grips too tightly at the edges, and the pages turn in on themselves.

“Good morning, old boy,” he says before Watson can speak. “Mrs. Hudson should be up with breakfast any minute now.”

Watson opens his mouth, as if to respond—and then can’t, and he turns and goes back into his bedroom without a word. Holmes turns a page of the newspaper and reads the headline there without taking any of it in, his gaze sliding over the words without comprehending them.

\---

At the end of winter on the edge of spring, Holmes’ list of cases runs out, and for the first time in months he goes for more than two weeks without anything to occupy him. He paces around their rooms at first, in endless circles, wearing scuffmarks into the floors. He finds his morocco case next, hidden from Watson several years ago but not discarded as Watson had requested.

The prick of the needle is like coming home, and he hates himself for it before he doesn’t really feel anything at all. The stupid thing slips, though, when he tries to take it out—damn, he never used to be this clumsy, his hands shake—and it stings, forcefully; he curls around himself in the armchair and ignores it, the unsteadiness of his hands a nuisance more than anything else.

This is how Watson finds him: trembling, his forehead pressed against the arm of the chair, sweat gathering on his brow and his chest, his fingers pressing into the palms of his hands, leaving marks.

Watson starts to speak and Holmes sees that he wants to be angry, to scream and rage, but then Watson finds his medical kit instead and bandages the needle mark on Holmes’ arm—the stupid thing is bleeding, who the fuck can’t use a needle properly, that’s what Holmes wants to know—Watson’s hands are gentle, the swipe of antiseptic is not, stings. Watson shushes him when Holmes makes a noise at that, saying something like _don’t be a child,_ or _shut up, it doesn’t hurt that badly._

Watson helps Holmes to his feet and leads him to bed. He casts the blankets aside and lowers Holmes onto the mattress, removing his shoes, his touch unbearably gentle. Holmes doesn’t want to flinch away from it, but he does.

Then Watson kneels beside Holmes’ pillow and smooths his hair back from his forehead, damp with sweat. “You insufferable, foolish man.” He sighs, resigned. “I don’t know why I ever put up with you.”

 _Neither do I,_ Holmes thinks—and then he smiles, brokenly, like he doesn’t regret a thing.

When Watson leans down to kiss him, Holmes doesn’t turn away—but, he thinks, he should.


End file.
